


The Shuttered Eye

by Miriam_Heddy



Series: The Parallax Effect [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike and Xander take nothing for Granta. Begins directly after The Parallax Effect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shuttered Eye

**Author's Note:**

> 'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:  
> train tracks always meet, not here, but only  
> in the impossible mind's eye;  
> horizons beat a retreat as we embark  
> on sophist seas to overtake that mark  
> where wave pretends to drench real sky.'   
> ~"Love is a Parallax," Sylvia Plath

By eleven o'clock, the humans were ambling through the park to the fountain. Harris finished off his ice cream as they walked, looking like any other American taking in the sights. When Harris got down to  
the cone, he handed it to Spike to finish off. Spike almost turned it down, but he liked the crunchy part at the  
end and there was no point pretending otherwise. Harris knew him too well.

They followed the well-lit paths, moving alongside tourists and locals out for a late night stroll. The park was emptying, gradually. By midnight, it would be officially closed, though by then, Red would have started her masking spell that should render them, if not invisible, then at least less obvious.

In Cleveland, as in Sunnydale, the Scoobies could battle Evil in full view, all without the locals batting an eye. A Hellmouth was camouflage for all manner of strangeness, though Spike had never worked out quite how.

London was different. The city's age meant it'd seen its share of monsters, himself included. A city that survived Jack the Ripper and the Blitz knew when to get to cover, when to look the other way, and how keep on living in the middle of chaos and bloodshed. Spike could remember a time when it was easy to snack on a suffragette at Speaker's Corner with no one the wiser. And whores--easy pickings and hardly missed. But times had changed. Half a million CCTV cameras in London meant Rupert Van Helsing and Company stowed their weaponry out of sight, and vampires with their heads on straight avoided the public fare in favor of the back-alleys, where a drained body could remain hidden for days, or until the smell of rot led police there.

And speaking of drained bodies, if Harris didn't stop bumping into him like a tottering drunk, he was on the short list to become one.

Spike bumped him back hard enough to shove him toward a lamp-post and Harris just giggled.

A few steps later, Harris was back in Spike's personal space, brushing against him, as if there wasn't enough enough room on the bloody path for his fat arse.

Spike elbowed him in the side and Harris moved away with another laugh, only to return, knocking shoulders with him then elbowing him back.

"Bloody hell, Harris. What _is_ your problem?" Spike shoved him away with enough force to trip Harris, though he was undaunted, miraculously staying on his feet and springing back into Spike's space with a look of muted glee on his face.

Behind him, he could hear Buffy and Willow giggling and Spike considered adding to the body count. Wankers, the lot of them.

Spike's guitar case bumped against his leg as he walked, keeping time with his steps. He tried shifting it from right hand to left, putting it between them. But Harris just oh-so-casually walked around to his other side, ramming into him again. Spike shoved him off, again. Idiot.

Harris had asked him once, "Why don't you keep your sword back _here_ ," slipping his hand to the nape of Spike's neck and back down behind his collar, fingertips tickling the top of his spine. They were in public, at the time, browsing through the books at the bookstore. Actually, _Spike_ had been browsing. Harris was tapping his foot and looking longingly at the coffeeshop across the street, his belly making little hungry sounds. Spike had suggested he toddle off and find the kiddie books with pictures or get himself a damned coffee and cake if he was so damned hungry he couldn't wait, but Harris had insisted on staying there, flipping through books he had no interest in reading while monitoring his watch. It was two hours until the late film started and they had plenty of time.

Spike purposefully lingered longer than necessary just to torture him. He took his pleasures where he could. Harris' touch at the base of his neck had been intimate and careless and proprietary. And Spike had shivered, almost forgetting that Harris had asked him a question. He finally answered, "Bugger that. I'd cut myself or ruin the coat getting it out. That's why."

And Harris had paused and seemed to think about that, as if he couldn't work out the problem of sword meeting neck. Then he said, "Ah! But you don't have to _wear_ the coat!" looking for all the world like he'd solved the problem of cold fusion and expected a prize.

Spike had just stared at him and said, "Sword wouldn't be hidden then, _would_ it?"

And with that, Harris finally left to go get his coffee, all the while muttering under his breath--but not out of a vampire's earshot--about "Mean, old, boring vampire boyfriends," which Spike took to be a compliment.

It was only after Harris had gone and Spike thought about it that he realized Harris had got the hidden sword idea from that _Highlander_ film in which the weaponry magically appeared and disappeared at will. It was a nice trick, but impossible without magic, and he didn't trust Red to try it. She and weaponry were, as Harris said, "unmixy things." The last time she'd tried to "improve" a stake, it'd turned rubbery and bendy and the vampire Harris was going after had nearly impaled himself on a tree branch laughing at Harris and his dummy stake.

When Spike paid for his purchases and joined Harris at the shop across the street, Harris was just finishing off a muffin, crumbs all down his t-shirt.

Spike re-opened the conversation with, "There can be only one's a stupid idea."

Harris looked up with a raised eyebrow and a grin. "Yeah? How so?"

"The world's big enough for more than one immortal. No sense making up stupid rules with no point to them, is there?"

"What, like, say, vampires can't be seen in mirrors because of... _why_ was that again?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Something to do with the Soul. Or silver. Or mercury. Sod it--Never did understand that one."

Harris laughed. "Okay, A) you have a Soul, so shouldn't you have a reflection now? And two, mirrors don't use silver anymore, or mercury, so again--can we say arbitrary?"

Spike had to agree. It was damned inconvenient not having a reflection, though he could always use Harris' expression to tell him when he'd woken up with bedhead or had a stubborn cowlick. "Right, well, you take that up with the Powers and we'll see how far it gets you. Imagine they'll get right on it."

"As they should," Harris agreed, taking a sip of coffee and balling up his muffin wrapper. "Hey, so if there's so much room around, explain to me how come you and Angel can't be in the same room for more than five minutes at a time without somebody calling for a duel? I mean, aside from him being an asshole, because _that's_ a given and reason enough for--Hey--I have a thought!"

Harris waited a beat, but Spike didn't think it was worth the effort to insult him by pointing out that not all of Harris' thoughts were cause for anyone to sit up and take notice.

"And my thought is, drumroll please... Duncan MacLeod versus Angel."

"What?" Spike sat up.

"Hypothetically speaking. Who'd come out on top?"

Spike grabbed Harris' coffee and took a sip, taking his time and thinking on that one. "No holds barred fight, both of them buying into this 'only one' nonsense?"   "Them's the rules. Death Match, with swords."

"Angel or Angelus?"

"Angel," Harris said with a nod. "Definitely Angel."

Spike sighed and slid back down in his seat, disappointed. "Wouldn't work. Angel'd look for a loophole, probably find it. That or they'd go off to some bit of Holy Land and try to out-brood each other to death. That other one, though--from the telly--pit him against Angelus."   "Yeah? Who'd win?"

Spike snorted. "Death on a horse versus Death with a stick up his arse?"

"Hmm. Your ideas are intriguing to me and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter." Harris kicked the bookstore bag under the table and reached down to grab it, putting it up on the table. "So what'd you get?"

"Books." Spike pulled out his purchases, laying them on the table for Harris to see. Spike knew Harris wouldn't recognize any of the names there. Funny thing about the Soul was it gave him patience to read again, and a good reason to want out of his own head. Too many stories inside, vivid and painful as any between the covers of a book, but he could shut a book and be done with the story, unlike memory, which went on and on. He didn't talk about it, ever, but he thought Harris understood at least a little.

"Huh," Harris said, scanning the backs with a shrug. "Not my thing."

Spike nodded. "You done here?"

"Yup."

Spike put the books back in the bag and left the shop, with Harris following behind him.

On the street, Harris asked, "What about putting it _here_?"

"Putting what--"

"Your sword," Harris murmured, up against his ear. And Harris slid his hand inside of Spike's coat to skim along Spike's waist and hip like a clumsy pickpocket feeling around for a wallet.

"You thinking I should keep your ax in there as well?" Spike asked, turning into the touch. He could just imagine how comfortable it'd be to run with an armory in his coat, sword clanging against his thigh. Not to mention how it'd ruin the line of the coat.

Harris' hand came to rest inside the back pocket of Spike's jeans, warming Spike's backside. There wasn't much room back there, but Harris wiggled his fingers and Spike went still, aware of what it looked like, two men standing that close on the street in front of the coffeeshop, Harris' hand on his arse.

It was still early days in their "relationship," and back when they'd first fallen into bed together, he hadn't imagined that Harris would want to be "out." Actually, he'd been sure there'd be panicked denial, and possibly threats to stake Spike if he told anyone.

He should've known. Harris didn't do things by halves.

A month after they'd first fucked, Harris had dragged him to a reading at Gay's the Word, arguing that it was some sort of moral bloody obligation that they participate in "the community." Spike had argued that they _participated_ plenty by doing it in the backroom of every gay club in London, but Harris had got it in his head that he needed a bloody rainbow feather in his white hat. Spike had finally agreed to go to the bookstore reading, and it'd been worth it, as it turned out Harris had his days mixed up and, instead of a poetry reading, there were a couple of women reading from an anthology of dirty lesbian writing. They were the _only_ men there, naturally, and Harris had very nearly turned around and went home, but Spike _insisted_ they stay, since, after all, Harris wanted to _participate_ in the _community_ and that meant supporting the sisters, yeah?

Spike had enjoyed every moment as Harris blushed and squirmed in his seat with his jacket draped over the tent in his trousers as the dykes went on about girl on girl kisses and hot, wet cunts. Harris couldn't look Red in the face for a week after that. Served him right, that did.

A few weeks later, though, having not learned his lesson, Harris slapped a rainbow bumper sticker on _Spike's_ car that said, "Closets are for clothes," heedless of Spike's protest that, as a _vampire,_ the only "right" Spike gave a shit about was the right to drink his blood in peace.

Unfortunately, they'd had that argument in front of Willow, who started in on him with, "They came first for the vampires, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a vampire..." etc. etc. ad nauseum, all the while tapping her temple and looking sternly at him until he'd finally argued that he'd actually _lived_ in Harris' closet, so there was no point quoting bloody Neimoller to him. Besides which, he'd done his part fighting the Nazis, hadn't he? He'd eaten quite a few of them, in fact.

And that essentially ended the argument, though when he'd peeled off the sticker, Harris had just put up another one in its place that said, "Vampires Suck!"

Xander Harris--irony so thick, you could cut him with a knife.

Spike came back from his reminiscence when Harris once again smacked into his shoulder, not quite managing to throw him off his stride, but coming close enough that Spike grabbed hold of Harris' hand to stop him from further weaving. He squeezed it hard enough to make Harris' knuckles grind in his palm.

"Ow! Sp--"

"Shut it," Spike said, before Harris could say something stupid. It felt poncy enough as it was, holding hands, their arms swinging between them.

The Slayer's "Awww!" was not said quietly enough to miss, despite Red's cautionary, "Shh! Or he'll let go. It is cute, isn't it?"

Behind him, he heard Rupert mutter, "Pretty as a picture," loud enough that, beside him, Harris twitched and tried to pull away. Spike didn't let go. Harris' palm was sweaty and warm, rough with callouses.

Spike figured it was only for a few more minutes, and then the killing would start and he'd need both hands free for that. He wanted blood. He also wanted Harris far enough away that none of _his_ blood would be spilled, though, like the man said, you can't always get what you want (sometimes you get what you bleed).

The ax and his own sword were tucked away in the guitar case, along with a selection of stakes, some holy water, and an assortment of magical supplies he wouldn't touch. If he needed to, he could drop the case and run or hand the weaponry off to one of the others to carry. His own preference was to fight barehanded, but some demons needed iron or silver or wood to kill, and he could well imagine Harris trying to tuck his ax down his own back and behead himself getting it out in an attempt to look cool. Rupert's intel suggested the Granta were best fought with something sharp.

Even with their weapons sheathed and stowed away in bags, they still drew more attention than he liked. Spike thought it was the energy Red put off when she was nervous. Like static electricity, the restless energy sparked off her and caused anyone within sightline of her to come awake and look closer, get edgy.

Spike was not immune to it, nor was the Slayer, who was all but vibrating, causing Rupert to struggle to calm her as if she was a skittish horse before a race, though Spike could've told him she had energy to spare.

By half past eleven, they'd arrived at the site of the prophesy and were on guard, standing on the path leading into the fountain. The whole thing was 80 meters long and 50 meters wide--the size of a football pitch. Red insisted they needed to be spread out at specific points on the oval that had some "elemental significance." He'd tuned out on the particulars, not caring about the import of Cornish granite and noting only that Red's plan meant that they were going to be far enough from each other that, even running at top speed, Spike wouldn't be able to save them all. Not that it was his job to save anyone but himself. And Harris. If he had to, he'd run for him first, and let Red and the Slayer and Rupert fend for themselves.

He looked over at Harris again, deciding he definitely wished he had a photograph of Harris and him, just in case anything... not that it would. And no photos of them with their hands clasped like a couple of poofters.

But just that look. He wanted to preserve that--the tense line of Harris' mouth twitching upwards into a smile, amusement warring with worry on his face as he thought about the fight to come.

Spike wanted a photo of Harris looking at him with that expression, half-mocking, half-adoring, ready to fuck or fight when Spike said the word. Spike wanted to be in the picture, too, so anyone looking at it would know Harris was looking at _him_ that way. Harris' one, real pupil was wide, taking in all the available light, making his eyes mismatched behind his somewhat stylish safety glasses. No sense risking his only eye because of vanity, as he'd told Harris when he first got them and complained about wearing them.

Harris adjusted the glasses, pushing them up on his nose, and he grinned at Spike, who grinned back, helpless not to. Wound up for the fight, Spike had a sudden urge to bend Harris over the nearest park bench and take him there, in full view of the rest of them.

Instead, Spike dropped his hold on Harris' hand and shifted the guitar case from one hand to the other before setting it down at his feet. He knelt down and opened it up, sliding the sword from its scabbard and handing the ax to Harris. He stared at the sticker Harris had placed on the outside of the case. It had a pink triangle that said, "I'M A MAN'S MAN."

The sticker wasn't wrong. Well, it was _wrong_ in the sense that Harris' entire sense of humor was wrong. Still, he could unlive with it, and did, and if he peeled the sticker off, he knew Harris would only replace it with something worse.

He heard the others getting ready in their own way, moving into position around the oval, having last words about strategy, with Red assuring Rupert that she knew the spell, had the supplies ready, and all they needed to do was keep the five Granta too busy to do their own magick whilst she did hers and secured the site.

Spike had chosen the point where the streambed widened to a reflecting pool twenty feet across and eighteen inches deep. Rupert had the point opposite him on the ellipses--the highest point on the grade. Trees--the same ones whose leaves had bunged up the fountain upon its opening--grew at the perimeter, casting strange shadows over the area in the moonlight and making it easy to sneak up on them. Spike wished they could've cut the foliage down before the fight, though Red had nixed that idea with an offended gasp, saying, "This is a memorial!" as if Spike had never desecrated one before. He sometimes wondered at the sheer number of times they simply seemed to forget what he was--that he'd lived in crypts, shoving out the mouldering bones of other men to make his own nest in the stone vaults. But they were children, still, and Diana's death was old news--hardly making an impact on them when it happened. On the walk over, he'd heard Buffy say something about watching the royal wedding, murmuring something trite about how sad it all was, and Willow had agreed that, "Yes, death was. And the poor children! Not that it wouldn't be just as sad without them, because death is sad." Rupert had just sighed heavily and agreed in mild terms that, "Yes, it was a great loss," when they'd drawn him into the conversation for an opinion. And then the Slayer had returned to the theme of how she'd always wanted to get married in a horse drawn carriage.

Princess Herself was now standing, sans her glass slipper and armed with a broadsword and matching strappy silver shoes, on the East side of the fountain. Harris stood opposite her on the West, his ax resting loosely at his side, his clothing uncoordinated as usual and rumpled, as if he'd picked it up off the floor before putting it on (which was entirely possible, as Spike hadn't done laundry in an age, leaving Harris to do it when he got tired of it--that being one of the benefits of being "a man's man.").

Red had taken her place inside the oval, ready with her magical supplies. From what Rupert had gathered from consulting his tomes, the Granta would materialize shortly before midnight, wanting these same spots as part of their plan to open their portal to one of the many hell dimensions out there. The idea was to take the Granta out before they could finish the spell--as usual, cutting it close.

Red had muttered something about how she'd need to call on Diana (the huntress, not the dead princess, Spike had clarified, before Harris could start cracking inappropriate jokes about resurrecting the dead Lady at her own fountain. And alright, Spike may be a crude vampire with little regard for death's rituals, but it was still the royal family they were talking about, and he'd lived at a time when the monarchy really _meant_ something besides pomp and princess fantasies.)

By quarter to midnight, their quarry finally appeared. In the blink of an eye, they moved in--big, ugly, and multi-limbed in that way that Harris always said made him feel a little nauseated. Though Spike liked to say Harris was small-minded and speciest, he personally had to agree that, while he didn't mind the look of a human with fewer than four limbs, a humanoid shape with _more_ than four limbs seemed wrong in ways that even the demon's aesthetic didn't allow him to appreciate.

The Granta were disturbing on many levels. Their extra little arms seemed to collapse into their sides, disappearing into the bulk of their midsection when not in use, though they were spindly things and Spike really wasn't sure if they had function or were just vestigial bits that should've dropped off at some point if they hadn't simply stopped evolving. Maybe they were decorative. To each his own, Spike figured. For all he knew, Granta women liked wee little hands grabbing at their... actually, for all he knew, these Granta _were_ women.

They shimmered slightly at the edges as they popped into view, though after a moment, that shimmer faded and they were solid masses, looming a good two feet larger than Spike and twice his breadth. They were vulnerable, according to the lore, only to repeated hackings that cut through their outermost layer to stop their organs. In other words, they were much like humans--built like linebackers, but mortal.

For a few seconds after the Granta popped in, all of them stood in tense silence, the Granta surprised to see them there, and the Scoobies just waiting to see what would happen next. Spike took a quick headcount and realized that whatever neat grand plan Rupert had worked out at the meeting was already falling apart, which was just as well given Spike's preference was for a melee over any carefully plotted out battle. For one thing, though Rupert somehow assumed there'd be only five Granta to fight (five being the usual number in Granta clans), there were six. Apparently, nobody seemed to have told Brian Epstein that he was one too many.

Spike had time to adjust the grip on his sword, then, with a mighty roar, the Granta raised arms against them and charged.

For some reason, two of them broke off and headed straight in Harris' direction, though Spike shouted out a few choice curses aimed at their mum, drawing their ire so that one of them turned toward Spike and away from Harris, giving _him_ the joy of a two for one kill and leaving Harris with just one Granta, which looked to be more than enough for one human.

Spike could handle two. And when he was through with them, he'd take Harris' Granta on as well, if Harris hadn't already finished him off.

Spike saw Harris deftly duck a blow to the head while swinging his ax around for another go at his demon.

"So tell me again why we're here?" Harris called out, counting on Spike's hearing to let him catch his words over the sounds of rushing water and five people engaged in battle.

"To fight _these_ gits," Spike answered, shouting back but not caring if he was heard above the growls. The question was rhetorical, and as Spike said it, he ripped into one of the two demons with the tip of his blade, though the demon backed up quick enough that the damage was minimal. The second charged at him, then, seeing an opening, and Spike egged him on, dropping his arm slightly and then bringing it up and severing one of the Granta's extra little arms, which dropped off at its side, oozed brown blood onto the grass--a few drops spattering into the fountain making a hissing sound. The little hand on the little wrist twitched a moment or two and then stopped. Spike stepped on it, just to be sure.

The Granta growled at him, and Spike shrugged. It still had several more arms where that one came from.

"Not that this--isn't-- _fuck_ \--a nice park as parks--go. But isn't-- _stop that!_ \--a fountain supposed to-- _shit_ \--have water going _up_ and then, y'know, _falling_? Is it an English thing like--like-- _lift_ instead of elevator or-- _chips_ instead of fries?" Harris complained, all the while dancing around and swinging his ax, taking very few hits but landing just as few.

The fountain's water meandered around the granite ellipses, running smooth for long stretches at a time and then speeding up as it traveled over a series of steps carved into the stone, apparently meant to emulate a roughened streambed though the slick stone was too perfect for that--the water rushing down the graduated stone steps making the wrong sound as it flowed over the man-made surface, free of sediment, though algae slicked the bottom of it, making it a hazard.

As the Granta advanced on him, Harris kept retreating. He'd warned Harris in advance about staying the fountain being slippery, but as he watched Harris fight from the corner of his eye, he saw Harris leap into the fountain, ignoring his cautions. The Granta followed, taking a step into the fountain and almost falling.

Harris splashed about, keeping up a steady stream of complaints and insults directed at the faulty fountain (cold water, not very clean, and maybe they should've thought about lining it with those rubber bathtub mats to make it less slippery), at the Granta (ugly, ugly, and more ugly, and hey, if the Granta felt like a bath, there was some handy dandy water right there), at the general state of the universe (unfair, not that he was promised rose gardens, but still) and at the lack of good television in England (sheep, antiques, cooking, _Coronation Street_ ) and on it went.

The demon didn't seem to know what to make of Harris and his endless stream of babble, nor did he have a clue how to fight Harris. His style was too unpredictable. Spike had concluded long ago that Rupert's failure to train Harris was brilliant, as any training he offered would likely get in the way of Harris' own instinct for self-preservation. Harris fought like someone torn between abject fear and insane determination not to run, and it led, in a roundabout way, to Harris forcing his opponent to draw in close as Harris backed up, apparently cowering in fear. Then, when they got close enough and overconfident, Harris would change course and go on the attack, as if someone else had taken over--someone unhindered by normal, sane human emotions like fear at fighting demons thrice his size.

As a demon and a fighter, Spike could admire that unpredictability. As the vampire who loved Harris, it was _maddening_ to watch, as Harris _was_ a mere mortal, which left Spike fighting his own Granta while measuring the distance between himself and Harris, waiting for the moment when Harris would tire or make a mistake, hoping his own opponents would fuck up first.

But Harris was beautiful chaos, swinging his ax with a brutish beauty and grace, slowing but surely gaining the advantage.

On land, the Granta were fast on their feet and their hides were tough enough that what blows Harris landed tended to glance off rather than sinking in to do damage. But Harris had clued into that and had turned from direct attacks to subtler ones, backing up enough that the demon was forced to move into the water with him, chasing him. The Granta was far less steady with its bare feet under water, while Harris wore boots with good traction.

Spike watched as Harris' Granta threw out several arms in pinwheel fashion to stay upright after Harris came after it with a roar, ax flashing in the moonlight.

Spike turned to attend to his own demons. The taller of his two Granta was more aggressive, and Spike taunted him until he made a stupid move, trusting too much in his size and not anticipating Spike's drive to win. Spike feinted with the sword and then, instead of using it, he kicked at the demon, catching him in the kneecap. The demon cursed and faltered, and Spike came after him, dropping his sword entirely to continue his attack bare-handed.

The demon he was working on felling already had several deep wounds from which more brown ichor oozed, though it seemed to have done little to slow him down, and Spike was getting bored of the joust and parry. He was also wet up to the knees from having been pushed backwards twice into the wading pool, though the demon--damn him--refused to follow him in and instead waited for him on the grass.

So he said screw form and went for the vulnerable spots, slamming the heel of his hand into the big demon's nose until it made a grinding, breaking sound, blood running freely down the big arse's ugly face.

The other, smaller Granta (who was still a head taller than Spike) ran at him, no regard for taking turns, and Spike stepped away just in time. The demon was moving too fast to stop, and he rammed into the big one, pushing them both into the water with a loud splash.

With a roar of his own, Spike grabbed for his sword and ran into the fountain, driving it into the demons as they struggled to get off each other. The sword ran straight through one of them and impaled the one on the bottom as well, though they kept on struggling. Spike thrust the sword down another inch or two, until the quillian was embedded in the flesh and the sword was pushing through ribs and guts. He stopped when the sword could go no further, the tip hitting the granite floor of the fountain. The water was clouding up dark with Granta blood.

Finally, the Granta both stopped moving. Spike let go of the sword, leaving it in them a moment as he leaned in and took hold of the top demon's head, pulling hard enough to sever its neck. And _then_ he pulled his sword out, rolled the top demon off the bottom one and did the same neck adjustment on the bottom demon, just in case he got it in his head to recover.

Then he ran over to Harris, who gave him a curt nod, permission to join the fight. Spike nodded back, acknowledging he was there to assist, not to rescue. Spike no longer helped unless he got permission, even if it meant waiting and watching and waiting for Harris to fall. Sometimes, Harris just wanted to exhaust himself. But he could tell from the heavy drag of Harris' arms, held slightly lower than before, that Harris was well past that point and wanting it finished. He'd done well, considering.

Spike jumped up on the edge of the fountain just behind the demon and tapped him on the shoulder, hard. "Oi, dimwit, got your two friends doing some reflecting in the pool over there. Think you're next."

The Granta turned his body just enough to give him a dumb look, not getting it, and Spike shrugged, swinging his sword wildly, not aiming to hit anything but getting the demon to turn just that tiny bit more, taking his eyes off of Harris, who inhaled and took a huge swing, putting his weight behind it and bringing the ax down on the demon's neck, apparently hitting the demon's version of the carotid, as suddenly there was hot blood _everywhere_ , spraying out at them as the demon fell.

"Ew. Now _that's_ a a fountain," Harris exclaimed with a choked laugh just as Spike leaped away from the dying Granta, too late to avoid being sprayed by it as well. He was already coated in blood, tasting the bitter stuff as it dripped down his face.

Harris was coated as well, his glasses covered in it. Spike waved him over to the fountain, and the two of them took the time to wash their faces off before heading over to the others. Spike rinsed off the weapons, too, as it wouldn't do for Harris to lose his hold on that ax. The Granta blood was viscous and clinging, and Spike could tell it'd be difficult to get out of leather.

Satisfied he'd done what he could, they took off to Rupert, the weakest of the three and most likely to need help. Spike didn't hold back, and he was so much faster that he got to Rupert before Harris had covered half the distance.

"Oi, Watcher, how's it--"

Rupert, who was standing on the edge of the fountain's border, turned as Spike called out to him and Spike frowned as Rupert lost his footing and went arse over tit into the fountain with a brilliant, loud splash.

"Oops," Spike said, not terribly sorry.

Rupert's demon grunted and then roared, apparently finding the Watcher's pratfall funny. Taking advantage of the distraction, Spike charged at it, shoving it down onto its back on the grass beside the fountain. Spike straddled the demon's chest and, not wasting time, repeatedly punched it in the face until its ugly features were obscured by blood.

By the time Harris joined them, Spike had cut the thing's neck, careful to avoid the carotid this time.

He stood up, giving the demon a good, hard kick in the side as he did so, and watched Harris, still red-faced and panting from the jog, hoist Rupert up and out of the fountain. They both looked done in. Spike saw that Harris was holding his side, not because it hurt from running, as he'd first thought, but because he had a wound there--shallow, from the look of it, but about four inches long.

"How--how many--" Harris asked.

"Four down," Spike said, wishing they had time to tend to Harris but knowing they didn't. "No, five, probably. Assume the Slayer's got hers."

They all turned to look and saw that Buffy wasn't in her assigned spot. Spike scanned the area and found her beside one of the trees, fighting three Granta at once. Spike turned to Red in the center and saw that she was standing beside another Granta, which seemed frozen at her side. That made four, plus the four they'd just killed.

"What--I thought there were supposed to be five, tops, in these tribes, and now we've got--"

"Eight," Spike said, flatly, finishing off Harris' thought and glaring at Rupert.

"So glad you can both count," Rupert snipped. "And before you ask, I have no idea why there are so many. It would appear that two clans have joined together. It's highly unusual. Lore has it that--"

"Lore's bollocks," Spike observed, turning back to watch Buffy as she defended herself against three at once with the kind of ease and power that had drawn him to her at first, then pushed him away.

Beautiful.

Harris sighed beside him and Spike turned, noticing Harris' frown. And then he realized he'd said it aloud--that she was beautiful. "Meant her fighting is--well, _look_ at her."

Spike felt Harris' disapproval as an itch under his skin that matched the itch _on_ his skin from the drying Granta blood. It's not as if he didn't have a _right_ to admire her from afar. It wasn't sexual. Well, it was, partly, in that it was bloody sexy the way she moved, her body drawing arcs through the air as she swung and kicked and dove into easy rolls, evading capture, avoiding injury, and bouncing up onto her feet again before the Granta could figure out what was what. Fighting like that was like lyric poetry, rhythmic and--

Rupert cleared his throat and Spike saw that Harris had shifted his body so that he was facing the Watcher, pointedly putting his back to Spike, giving him the cold shoulder. And that wasn't right. Harris thought she was sexy and had gone along with Spike's little word play, getting into it like he had. Now Spike was supposed to pretend he didn't see it?

"So, I guess _somebody_ should help Buffy," Harris said, adding, "I mean, not that she looks like she needs help, unlike some of us."

The codicil "some of us" was quiet, said on an indrawn breath as Harris put his hand to his injured side, and  Spike heard the bitter resignation there, the whinging sulk of self-pity as Harris went through his usual, "Just a mortal, nothing special" routine that tended to settle in when Harris was tired and achy and hurt and feeling his mortality. There wasn't any point in arguing with him when he got like that, and no time to do it, either. Whatever Harris thought, Buffy couldn't go on fighting forever, and, unlike Rupert and Harris, Spike _could_ count. If two Granta clan had got together and Rupert was right in there being five per clan, that should make ten, not eight, which left two still unaccounted for, and Spike didn't like those numbers.

Spike was about to leave Harris and head over to Buffy, but just then, one of Buffy's Granta let loose a bellowing noise that must've been a signal of some sort, as the other two of Buffy's Granta broke off fighting with her all of a sudden, and then all three took off at a dead run towards the center of the fountain, with Buffy following close on their heels, looking puzzled and then worried as she realized they were heading straight for Willow, who had her back to them and wouldn't see them coming until it was too late.

Spike saw from the set of her shoulders that she was deep in the middle of some spell, eyes shut and focusing, with energy sparking around her. Spike had no idea what she was doing and didn't care--only that the demons seemed set to stop her and she hadn't even reacted to the demon's call to run at her.

Spike took stock, made some quick decisions, and started running towards the center, getting there just in time to tackle the frontmost demon, managing to knock it off its feet and bring it down before it got near Willow.

Peripherally, he saw Harris also running, using a burst of speed that Spike didn't know he had in him to plough into another of the Granta with a loud, "Ooph" that brought the both of them to the ground, hard, with the demon landing on top of Harris with its full weight.

And Harris wasn't moving, nor was the demon. Harris might've had the wind knocked out of him or....

Spike had his hands full with his own Granta, who was down but far from out.

Spike wanted to check on Harris but couldn't even call out to him, as the Granta he was wrestling with had got a forearm over his throat, trying to strangle him with it, though Spike didn't have to breathe and could survive a crushed windpipe if it came to it.

Too much was happening at once, and Spike almost missed the old days when fighting was uncomplicated--when he could dive in single-mindedly without worrying about anyone but himself. Even with Dru, he'd always been able to shut out everything but his own fight, trusting that Dru would either best her opponents or go to ground and wait for him to follow. Only at the end she hadn't been able to get out of harm's way, so maybe nothing had changed except that now, he had even more to fight for and more people counting on him, which made him paradoxically worse at fighting, dividing his attention when he could least afford for it to be divided.

And he was turning into a bleeding idiot, pondering his own navel as a demon threatened to snap his neck.

Sod that.

Ignoring the pressure at his throat, he thrust his hips and legs up as if he could push-off to standing. He couldn't with the weight on his neck, but the wave of his body forced the Granta to react just enough to shift its hold on him. He felt one of those small hands grab hold of him and claw at him, but he ignored it even when he felt it break through his shirt and then his skin, little claws digging into him.

He was focused on his own left hand, which was free. He got it to his hip and slid it under his duster, feeling around blindly, and there it was--a small knife. He slid it out of its sheath and onto the grass and then quickly plunged it into the Granta's back, right between its shoulderblades, the metal hitting bone with a jarring impact that almost caused Spike to lose hold of the knife. But he held on and pulled the knife out, plunging it in again even as another one of those little hands dug into his belly.

When this was done he was going to rip every one of its fingers off.

It took a third plunge of the knife before the Granta's big arm loosened from around his throat, and Spike shoved the body off of him, pleased to see it was dead, but not at all pleased with the ache in his throat or the ache in his guts that caused him to want to fold himself up and pass out. He needed blood to recover, and sleep, and Harris--

Harris!

Spike crawled over to Harris and realized he could still hear a heartbeat--just the one--and it was Harris, alive, but still under the massive demon.

Spike heaved himself up onto his knees and gave the demon a good, hard push, then another, rolling him off of Harris. The demon had a stake in its chest, through it's heart, Spike assumed, as it was dead.

Seeing all was well, Spike sank down onto the ground and rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky while listening to Harris' heartbeat, steady and strong, though he was passed out.

There were still two demons unaccounted for, but he could hear the Slayer taking care of the last of the three who'd run toward Willow, and wherever the missing demon were, they could wait until he caught his breath.

Spike rolled his head to the side, wincing at the pain in his neck as he did so.

Willow was still marshalling the forces of nature, an open book in one hand and something alight in her other. It looked like a sparkler, and it seemed to have caught the frozen Granta's attention. It stared at Willow with bulging eyes, leaning towards her and the light, though its legs and arms were bound at its side with Willow's latest spell--a binding thing that was like gummy rope or the foamy strings that came out of cans and stripped the paint off cars.

Harris had taken to calling Red Spiderwoman, though her webbing was, as she noted, "still in the experimental stage" and it didn't tend to last longer than five minutes before dissolving. She must've made some improvements recently, as the demon had been immobilized for longer than that, though given the way Willow's magic worked, Spike imagined he might suddenly come free at any moment.

The witch was chanting, "Egeria and Virbius, hear my call, accept my offering and tribute. Diana, hear my call, accept my offering and tribute" and the wind picked up, swirling her hair up around her face. Spike smelled traces of burnt leaves (Oak) and something sweet and cloying. And under that, blood, both from Harris' still seeping side, and his own wounds, but also from Willow herself. Spike squinted, trying to see were it was coming from, and then Harris stirred.

"Wha?" Harris asked, and Willow blinked and seemed to come back to herself, seeming to only just notice their presence on the ground in the middle of the ellipses. Her eyes widened as she took in the state of them, and then she shut them again, as if tuning them out, and went back to chanting.

Buffy must have finished off her demon at last, because she dragged herself over to the center of the fountain, looking considerably less cheerful than she had when they first started fighting. Though of all of them, she had somehow managed to stay dry and blood-free except for a smudge of brown high on her cheek that stood out like a bruise. When she caught his eye, she smiled at him, but she didn't say anything, perhaps realizing that Spike couldn't say much back.

Spike looked back at Harris again, shifting his body closer until he was able to touch him without moving much. "Xan--" he tried to say, but his throat was swollen up and he couldn't get the words out. Good thing he didn't need to breathe, though he'd kill for a fag.

"I'm okay," Harris said, muzzily, understanding Spike's question.

Rupert, having slowly hobbled over, had at some point gotten down onto the grass to rest a bit. Spike had noticed that, aside from being as wet as the rest of them, he was also moving stiffly and cradling one arm.

"The Granta have, over the past week, set into motion the beginnings of a complex spell that specifically requires water from this particular fountain at this particular time of the month."

"Complex spell," Harris hissed out. "These guys do not look capable of complex spells."

"Yes, well, be that as it may..." Rupert trailed off with a wince.

"What?" Harris asked, saving Spike the trouble of following up on that weighted ellipses.

"I'm afraid that while we were occupied with the Granta, the two missing Granta managed to make significant progress towards opening the portal."

"Significant progress. That means what, exactly?" Harris asked, pulling his elbows under him and managing to sit upright.

"Willow is attempting to close the portal now."

"Close the portal. That they opened. The one to the hell dimension," Harris echoed, nodding. "This is not good."

"No, it really isn't," Rupert agreed, his brows drawing close together as he worried at his lower lip with his teeth. It was an unusually nervous gesture and told Spike exactly how dire things were. And there was no recourse at this point--nothing more any of them could do except wait and see if Willow managed to close the portal.

Or not.

Rupert looked frustrated and helpless, and Spike could see he longed for a book in his hand--something he could flip through and make busy motions around.

Harris just looked sad, and Spike decided he was going to kill him if he turned all maudlin and started saying goodbye. It'd be easier if Spike could say something or even move--even go over and kiss Harris so that he couldn't speak. But Spike couldn't do any of those things, and he decided the worst of it wasn't not being able to say goodbye, because he wouldn't if he could. It was knowing they might be sucked into a hell dimension while his throat was puffed up like he had the gout.

No dignity in that.

"You look like shit," Harris said, and Spike rolled his eyes. "I mean, if you were human, I'd be asking around for a pen and performing an emergency tracheotomy, like they did on M.A.S.H. Except I'm not really sure I have any idea where your trachea is in all that puffiness you have going on there."

Spike inhaled, trying to get in enough air to say something rude, but his breath just came out again with a rough wheezy whistling sound.

"That doesn't sound too good either," Harris observed, and Spike felt Harris' hand slip into his own and squeeze before slipping away again. And then Harris' hand was up and in his face, and the scent of blood grew stronger. And Harris was pressing his wrist to Spike's lips, and there was blood--warm and potent and perfect. Spike slipped into gameface and opened his mouth as wide as he could, ignoring the pain and stiffness, and he let his fangs sink into the skin at Harris' wrist where he'd cut himself, making a better wound--one where the blood would flow out more quickly and heal more cleanly. And he sucked as well as he could given that swallowing hurt like hell, though it got easier the more blood he took in.

He stopped himself at about a liter, more or less--enough that his belly felt warm and comfortable, but not so much that Harris would pass out, even with his relatively minor injuries. It was a risk, because Harris might yet have to fight. You never knew what would happen with a portal opening. They might all be killed right off, or they might all live for hours, days, even years. Then again, if they survived, Spike being strong was still in their interest, and he knew that, regardless of what happened next, Harris wouldn't be satisfied letting him heal slowly.

Willow was still chanting and had turned from English to Latin to some language Spike couldn't be arsed to recognize, but he listened to the rhythmic chant running in counterpoint to the still steady beat of Harris' heart. Harris had sunk back down onto his back with a sigh, and Spike waited, feeling the blood having an immediate effect on his edema. He took a breath, then another, testing things out, and found it getting easier to breathe and swallow. He reached up and touched his throat, verifying that the swelling was easing. If his trachea wasn't crushed, it was at least bruised beyond the telling of it, and even with the blood, experience told him it'd be hours before he got his voice back.

Spike levered himself up to a sitting position and scanned the area, wondering if the two Granta--the ones who took care of business whilst they were diverted fighting the rest of them--were still hanging about ready to be first through the portal, though from what he'd seen of portals, you never knew until you'd opened one if it was a doorway or a black hole ready to suck your whole world into the next one, in which case you might as well go home, have a drink, and let hell come to you.

He was almost glad he didn't have the voice to ask Rupert what kind of portal this was likely to be.

He wondered where the portal was, though, as he hadn't seen anything portal-like opening up anywhere, and they didn't tend to be subtle things.

But then he caught a glimmer of something on the ground at the inner edges of the fountain, where the granite met the well-manicured grass.

"Wow! It's a Stargate!" Harris said in a hushed voice, turning his head toward Spike and smiling a wobbly smile at him. "Only flat and misshapen and not nearly as much fun, and I'm guessing it probably doesn't make that toilet flushing sound as it sucks us in."

Spike shook his head. Probably not.

"I don't suppose we're going to come whooshing out the other side and be in Vancouver, either. Because that'd be nice. Vancouver. Lots of trees. Good skiing, I hear," Harris continued, as if he were talking to himself.

"Xan--" Spike whispered, and Harris blinked at him and his smile broadened. Spike's voice was coming back, just a little, and he tried again. "See Scully," he whispered, or tried to, but then his throat seized up and that led to coughing and the tight, anxious feeling of not being able to draw in a breath. He didn't need to--it wasn't necessary, except for talking--but once he started up with it, and the coughing started, it was just a reflex, and difficult to stop the cycle--cough, breathe, more coughing. He doubled over and finally got it under control, holding his breath and then not holding it--just not breathing at all. When he sat up straight again, he saw Harris was sitting up as well, bracing himself with his hands and looking woozily at him with concern on his face.

"You okay?"

Spike nodded.

"Good. Don't try talking okay? And you should probably lay off the smokes, there, Spender. I hear they can kill you."

Spike held up two fingers and Harris grinned.

"Yeah, so I'm thinking if we get a vote on the outcome, which I'm guessing we don't--but hey, cup half full man here--I say if we get a vote, we all pick the hell dimension with the recycled Canadian actors. And the shrimp, of course. Don't want to forget the shrimp. I like shrimp. Though with my luck, we say, 'Shrimp please!' and the next thing you know, we're looking at un-paradoxical unhappy jumbo shrimp that're like ten feet high and angry as hell about their lot in life and the general lack of respect offered to jumbo shrimp in this universe we've got here. 'Oi! Who are you calling shrimp, shrimp?' Are you talking to me? Are you?' See, because in this hell, the shrimp are all either British or Robert DeNiro, with these big, shrimpy chips on their shoulders and...."

Harris kept on talking, and Spike nodded where necessary, letting Harris' panicked pop-culture nonsense wash over him, evidence that they were still alive and Harris' spirits were still up. Once, talk like that made him want to strangle Harris, but now, all it did was make him warm inside and sappily happy, though that might've been the blood, which was still running through him, vital and sweet, like Harris himself.

But all of a sudden, the sky brightened with electricity, and Harris shivered and went silent and still as the wind picked up and blew suddenly hard and cold, the temperature dropping faster than was natural, the wind swirling around within the fountain's bounds but not outside of it. Outside the oval, the leaves on the trees were peaceful and still.

"Creepy. Y'know, this plan really sucked," Harris whispered.

Spike agreed, silently, and reached out to take Harris' hand in his own. For once, the rest of them didn't comment. Spike was glad Dawn was in America visiting friends, though they might yet see her on the other side.

"This really does--"

The loud clap of thunder drowned out whatever Harris said next, and they all looked up at the sky just as the rains started, heavy sheets of it falling in wave after wave so fast that Harris sputtered and took off his safety glasses so he could see, Rupert doing the same with his own glasses. It felt like the whole Serpentine was being dumped over their heads, tidal waves of rain coming down.

He struggled to sit up so as not to drown, but didn't dare try standing yet, though the water was rising. At some point, it had to stop.

He heard Buffy yell something but couldn't make out what, then Willow said something that sounded like, "Blessed be," though it might well have been a curse for all he could make out the words. He had water in his ears and eyes. At least the Granta blood was washing out of his duster, though he was now covered in mud, with nary a dry patch on him.

He peered up at Willow and saw she had her hands out at her sides, cupping the rain as it fell. And she was smiling.

Spike saw that Harris hadn't noticed, nor had Rupert, so Spike reached out and tugged at Harris and pointed at Willow until Harris shouted out, "What? Is it--is it closed?"

Willow nodded and shouted back over the roaring rain, "Totally closed!" and again, "Diana fixed it. The goddess, I mean, not the--y'know."

And the rain suddenly eased up a bit, not stopping but settling to a heavy shower rather than a torrent.

"So, like, this rain is some sort of sign?" Buffy asked, looking disgusted at the foot of muddy water she was sitting in. The center of the fountain was flooded so that it looked like a giant wading pool, with water sloshing over the edge.

"It's just rain, I think. I mean, I think it's Diana's way of saying--"

"Sod off," Spike finished for her, feeling pleased when the words came out without anymore coughing.

Harris cleared his throat. "Spike means thank you for saving us and maybe we should go home, now."

"You're welcome. I mean, I didn't really do anything but ask for help," Willow said, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

It was humble of her. Once, she wouldn't have asked for help. She'd have demanded it as if it were her right.

Harris stood up and Spike got up as well. Buffy offered Rupert a muddy hand but he declined, hauling himself up to standing.

"That was good work with that iris deactivation spell," Harris said, clapping Willow on the arm. She put her arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder, looking tired, and when she took a step, she almost fell over, though Harris caught her before she did and she steadied herself.

"It was easy once I figured out the code."

"Diana has a code?" Harris asked. "Is it, by any chance, 903 224 637?"

"Um... nooo. It was more of a Greco-Sumerian water ritual with--"

"Aha! Sumerian. See, Spike, I told you it was a Stargate."

Willow laughed. "Like--like--the Abyss! Only--"

"Without the weird watery alien thing," Buffy said, looking down at wet, muddy clothes.

"Ooh, that face thing was creepy! I had nightmares about that--and the rat who had to breathe the pink fluid--"

"Oxygenated fluorocarbon emulsion," Harris added.

"Right. I mean, they say no rats were hurt in the making of the movie, but do you really believe that? They _say_ the rat died of natural causes afterwards. But what if there was a rat near the food the actors ate. I bet they put out traps, and what makes _that_ rat less important than the actor rat?"

Rats, Spike thought. There were five. There was some symbolism there, though he was too wet to reach for it.

"That is a deep question for which I have no answer," Harris said, and Willow sighed heavily, looking like she was coming down from her goddess-related high.

Spike walked over to stand on Harris' other side as the two geeks traded references. Long as he was mute, he could pretend he had no idea what they were talking about.

Rupert and Buffy were walking in comfortable silence just ahead of them, and Spike frowned, stopped, and turned around, realizing they'd forgotten something.

He tugged at Harris' arm and Harris stopped. "What?"

Spike whispered, "Forgot."

Harris looked puzzled and then nodded. "Right. The guitar case."

Spike shook his head and whispered, "Watcher." Rupert and Buffy had gathered the dirty weapons and put them in the guitar case.

"Huh. So what did we--"

"Granta," Spike said, pointing.

Harris looked, and then they _all_ turned to look back at the fountain. In the middle, the lone Granta was standing like a really ugly statue, still bound up in Willow's web, looking wet and miserable, having been abandoned by Derek and Neil.

"Think we should free him?" Harris asked.

"I think we should kill it," Buffy said with a frown, glancing again at the state of her dishabille.

Willow opened her mouth and then shut it again before she could protest.

"Spike, what do you think?"

"Why even bother? You know perfectly well what he'll say," Rupert said, sounding peeved.

"Well if we leave it, it might get free," Willow said.

"And kill someone," Buffy added.

"True. And he did try to kill us all," Harris weighed in.

"Actually, he sort of, um... I tied him up before he could actually do anything," Willow argued.

"But, if you hadn't, he was going to kill us, right?" Harris argued back.

"But we don't know that for sure. He might've been, I don't know, there to watch or--or something relatively harmless."

"There's nothing harmless about opening a portal," Harris shot back.

"And look what they did to my dress. I just bought this."

"It's really nice," Willow said. "Well, it was, before they--but that doesn't mean we have to kill it."

"Yes, by all means let's weigh wardrobe costs as part of the ethics of killing a demon," Rupert muttered.

Spike opened his own mouth and then shut it, deciding he had nothing to add to the conversation that wouldn't be taken the wrong way.

The demon's neck made a satisfying cracking sound as he spun its head around until it faced the other side. And just for kicks, he tore out its little arms.

He came back, holding one of them up for Harris.

"Look at that! Xander! He brought you a trophy!"

"Oh! Did you--is it--I mean, good. I mean... did you at least do that after you--ew." Willow looked a bit green around the gills.

"Thank you, Spike. I'm sure we can all agree that trying to end the world is a very bad thing."

"And Spike is a very good mouser, aren't you, Spike."

Spike handed the hand to Harris, who took it with a shrug, and then Spike turned to Buffy.

"Nice tits," he observed, pleased that his voice worked well enough to be heard when it counted. He elbowed Harris and pointed at her shirt, which was soaked through and showing the clear outline of a very lacy demi-cup bra. Harris looked, flushed pink, and kept on looking.

"Hey! You are both pigs," Buffy huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

But Spike could tell she was pleased.

Red missed the whole thing, still busy staring mournfully at the dead demon, who still stood there, upright and bound, with his head going the wrong way. Spike wondered if he should've knocked him over, but decided he was a definite improvement to the landscape.

He only wished he had a camera to capture the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Blatant geek references. No television shows were harmed in the making of this story. 
> 
> Written for [spring_with_xan](http://spring-with-xan.livejournal.com/profile).


End file.
